


Super America

by fullbodykiss



Series: poetry stories [2]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Deaf Character, Fluff and Crack, Friends to Lovers, Journals, M/M, Original Character(s), Pining, Songfic, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, who doesn't love some pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-11-04 07:28:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10986255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fullbodykiss/pseuds/fullbodykiss
Summary: Jared's beenSuper America's regular costumer for years.Their coffee is just really that good.No, really.





	1. first verse

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  DECLARATION  
> America is the main metaphor.  
> Nothing must be taken personally.
> 
> DISCLAIMER  
> I don't own the characters.  
> The lyrics belong to the Bad Bad Hats.
> 
> AUTHOR'S NOTE  
> I just liked this song so much.  
> Its own meaning isn't a parallel to this work of fiction, by all means;  
> but once you tear the lyrics apart, you can fit about anything together.  
>  

 

 

### 

##  super america

### 

 

 

 

= 1st =

 

 

 

 

 

_i want a sweet tea_

 

 

Jared breathes the USA,  
has been for nine years. 

Except for that one time when they were visiting relatives in Texas and they spontaneously crossed the gate to Mexico to 'see some culture'; but he'd been asleep in the backseat, only starting to wake up when they were in the driveway of Aunt Stephany's baby-blue villa, so.  
Probably doesn't count. 

In retrospect, it might've been a white lie. 

  
"Pick fast, sweetie, Glenn James is waiting", says Mum, pushing the round shades to rest in her curls, butterscotch blonde since yesterday, as she stares down at the loading Samsung logo. 

Jared cracks his knuckles and bounces in place, asking for, uh, a coffee without caffeine, please, but with a whole lotta foam and cream and extra sugar, please-please, and, uh, a chocolate cookie.

Please. 

Long wax fingernails slap a 100 dollar bill on the counter, and before he can point out her mistaking Hamiltons for Benjamins quirk again, she's heeled her way back out that door, phone held inches away to save the holy contour blend.

He shrugs, bending forward to support his  
weight on crossed arms as he waits  
for the coffee to get ready.  


A loose fist of  
green bones and change  
gently knocks against his arm. 

"You can keep it", he tells the matching irises nearly sinking into their whites, "But", he leans close for a whisper, eyes darting to the door, "Can I have another cookie?" 

The boy's squinting down at him. "Cookie?", he repeats. 

Jared nods a marathon. 

 

He exits the shop with a hot cup to-go, one cookie in his hand, five of the same sort waiting in the front pocket of his sweatshirt, and a skip in his step. He's gonna talk to the new girl today, maybe-maybe-maybe.

"Here!", Mum calls from the open window of a BMW's backseat. A new layer of lip gloss has joined the artwork. 

"You look pretty", he blurts.  


She stops mid-conversation, her sudden  
smile so, so privately open.  
"Thank you, honey." 

He smiles back, and hops to ride shotgun.  
The mister beside him doesn't seem to mind. Is he allowed to turn on the radio? It's very early. 

Pause button time is over,  
stress wants to press play again.  
"No. no. Lindsey, I'm done. Call me around five. No, love, I told you. Scheduled or not."  


To Glenn James, "We're ready!"  


And to Jared, while the motor starts vrooming, "Tell me, hon, is the brew any good?" 

He hands her the cup and - just cannot help grinning at the face she pulls, most likely contemplating whether the energy or the gloss will be worth it. 

"Chanel, dear", is yammered sure enough, but she takes a small sip anyway. "Oh, god. I almost named you Chanel. Ask pop, ask anyone." 

Another sip. 

He's way glad she didn't. 

 

 

_and a heart that won't break_

 

 

Denali, 20,310 feet. America is high. 

Jared isn't.  
He's almost eleven, and his height has just reached four. Sometimes he weighs himself, and sometimes he feels embarrassed, but he violently refuses to change his coffee order. And the bagels and choco-almonds each Thursday afternoon, when Mum thinks he's at the Junior Tennis Club. 

He sees hands around broomsticks, sweeping forth and back.  
He sees clouds swimming by.  
He sees people he wants to hug, he sees people he wants to peck on the cheek, old and young. 

This is a good place. 

 

 

_if you leave me_

 

 

Jared touches the nation's breadbasket, done so for thirteen years and a quarter. 

Just the mere quirk of the barista's brow and  
a tiny nod of his own, usually groggy self  
is enough to get refills on the house.  
That brow is now at eye-level, thanks to Jared's painful growth spurt starting two months ago. He's been eating like a horse. 

School is a dementor. Whenever he thinks about it and life and adulthood, he thinks he'll never be happy again. Everything, everything he does is another reason for shame. He can't even say hello to that quiet kid from English class. She always eats lunch all alone, standing in a corner. She's from Poland, said Oz. He said something else, too, but Jared doesn't like thinking about that. He didn't say anything back. 

Joining the drama club was the only escape from mum's constant poking about his increasing lack of productivity at home. It's distressing, she says. He doesn't use the pool, he doesn't play catch with the neighbour's child, 'What was his name again, Danny?', he doesn't press blue rose petals for Aunt Stephany. 

She does have a point. 

It's actually a funny story, occuring a few months ago. Completely by accident, Jared discovered a terrible, terrible page on the internet. One that physically forces him to press _Next Chapter_ without any consideration of his sleeping circle whatsoever.  
So, yeah. Nowadays, cooped up in his room, the only products he generates on a regular basis are those ending up in about four thousand tissues an hour.  
Talk about distressing. 

  
Hah.  
As it turns out,  
the kind of people who join the drama club  
are people like Chester Abel. 

  
Just to clarify -- Chester Abel is not a good person.

He is really loud and really rude, and he really likes pulling on Liane's french braid.  
She's slapped him six times already, but he just keeps on and keeps on doing it. Teachers have lost their hope and power many, many moons ago.  
Time and again, Jared tells her to aim for the balls. Her response is always the same - she isn't sure if that guy has any. 

 

 

_or pretend i'm not there_

 

 

1982 was the year of the first CD player, emoticons :-), _E.T._ , a huge cash robbery of nine millies, and _Eye of the Tiger_. Jared knows that they're celebrating their 15th anniversaries. 

Update: The growth spurt hasn't exactly stopped at the point where people are only mildly annoyed when you're standing directly in front of them at a _Massive Attack_ concert. 

Nuh-uh. 

By now, it's that only every single person with healthy eyesight is so kind to inform him about his extraordinary height, as if he didn't have to screw his mirror another few inches higher last week. 

Alright. Not.  
Not _every_ , every person. Maybe. 

It's about perspective, he guesses. 

This tentative  
smile belongs to the  
fingers around the cup, stretching out to  
his own  
as he takes his Mocha Latte,  
still extra-extra sugar,  
still extra foam,  
still warm. 

Jared brought another B minus from  
school the other day, and he  
has yet to show. 

It's summer now, and Josh is never home anymore. 

He can't  
smile back. 

 

 

_ i wish you'd let me lose you _

 

 

The number, like Jared,  
is from here, America.  


Everything and nothing and everything makes sense. 

Distinguishable is the tiny _+1_ , the beginning of a crosswise scrawl around the cup;  
cool brown washed over the rest.  


September binges on heat. 

And he does his homework.  
if he wants to be successful, he's gotta do his homework. Most nights, he doesn't even want to be a astronomer or an astronaut anymore.  
Whatever makes you happy  
or  
whatever makes me happy,  
he can't hear what they're  
really trying to say --  
sounds so different from everybody else's mouths, yet all the same.  
All the same. 

 

 

_i wish you cut your hair_

 

 

Jared's still tired of America,  
but his heart's  
less tired today. 

He did thirty-two sit ups and ten push ups this morning. Then he drank a very green, very disgusting spinach and avocado smoothie that made him feel like he was clean inside and his life was all figured out, and Mum asked if he'd like to join her on her 5K, 7 AM run tomorrow. He said yes because he was pumped and wild and stupid -- and now, now that he's slurping not-so-hot-anymore chocolate plus whip in front of Iron Man's mountain ba-boom scene, which faintly reminds him of a _Lonely Island_ song that Chester recently downloaded and is scattering everyone's brains with, he wants to take it back. 

 

 

_ oh, i'm a long way_

 

 

America, America. The land of opportunity. 

Today is the day.  
Today, the coffee shop finally, _finally_ finishes renovating. Jared's been waiting for three and a half weeks, reaching new lows as he suffered through the black-water-ish vomiting results of the vending machine at school. The very second his tongue's taste buds reacted to that gallimaufry, he set his mind on being the first costumer entering those dilated doors, or so God help him. 

Fortunately, the proclaimed opening time - Monday, seven o'clock, what the - fit perfectly into Jared's schedule. He'd just have to get up a little earlier. Or stay up all night, like giraffes and walruses. 

Unfortunately, Jared is not a walrus. 

But the thought must count. 

It must count, because here he is. Here, in his jizzed sweatpants, seven-thirty on the dot, one sock forgotten, and definitely going to miss the bus again.  
Nothing of that matters now. 

Exhaling, his body moves forward. 

  
Change is perceptible on the first step in. 

No, literally. Mrs Toyama must've decided that blowing wind into her costumers' faces will give them the impression of an epic rollercoaster ride. Right now, it only whisked Jared's emergency beanie off his think tank and onto the cream-colored tiles. 

Looking up, wool in hand, the first thing he notices are the biscuit sofas in the corner. Two women are snuggling on it, both pairs of eyes on a tablet display. 

A dramatic pinch of sadness. This used to be his sanctuary, his favorite place. Now it is gonna be everybody's. One round of 'Aw's for the naive, little-big boy in the middle. 

The new counter is broader, darker, shinier.  
Behind it, the pastoral scenes of beige toile are in tune with the three head posters announcing special offers and combos. Directly below, different kinds of packed coffee beans are lining up on wooden shelves. 

In the glass cabinet, their whopping assortment of pun-goods still puts any bakery to shame - _'The crepes of wrath'_ , _'Much ado about muffin'_ and _'Scone with the wind'_ are now part of the family. 

  
Thankfully, some things remain. 

It's good to see the photographs back on the wall, after they painted it over with brown-and-white caricatures.  
Jared has no idea who he's been looking at  
for the past few years, the people on those  
faded pictures, on corn fields or around tables, but all of them seem tickled pink happy.  
It lessens the strange feeling in his stomach.

And, hey. The barista's not alone anymore.  
Additionally, the simple _STAFF_ on his name tag has been replaced with an artfully printed triple-liner; first one filled with _Jensen_ , second one with _{Service}_ , and the third -- 

The strange feeling duplicates  
into something else. 

When, when did Jared ever read the fine print,  
the secret ingredient on that alphabet soup package he fishes out of the trash can for the third time at 10 PM on a Friday night,  
the terms and conditions of Candy Crush's new update?  
No, no, never.  
He's gonna scroll, scroll, speed-scroll to finally hit _Agreed_ , dammit, those endless pages are getting ridiculous.

Right,  
something powerful urges him to agree on all and any wicked rules and costs, whatever and whoever and forever they might be, with the force of a million dragons,  
now. 

Jared, however, has done his homework.

After lunch, after school, after post-school stress relief activities, after inhaling four sandwiches and three steaks, he lets the same  
American number  
fall  
into  
the bin. 

 

 

_from turning around on the highway_

 

 

Death Valley is at -282 feet. 

Shaken, Tuesday, he realizes --  
this  
is the second  
person he's ordered coffee from.

"That everything?", asks the  
orange mouth. 

Ever. 

Her combination of thick liner, long fake lashes and mixed shades of brown glitter underneath is edging on professional. Soft smudges of white cajal in the inner corners of her eyes, making them shine, shine, shine with the white dream of a summer dress hanging from her bony shoulders. 

What if _Genevieve {Service}_ gave him her number? What if she became his friend? What if he plucked a daisy from the forest and let it rest in her hair? 

Silent fingers drum on the platform. 

"Exc-", he jumbles. "E- I mean. Excuse me." 

He needs to, he needs -- and he has to hurry, the waste removal service doesn't arrive until later, and he's too much, too much, too proud to ask. 

Fucking America. 

 

 

_or calling your phone_

 

 

Again, nicer. Freaking America. 

After making contact with one too many chewed gum strips and remains of eaten apples, which, he has to admit, may be his own fault, the wet waste container is so far away from his room -- of all places, Jared finds the damned paper slip sandwiched between Mum's receipts from the drug store and the horrid B minus test. 

Wilde was right.  
This is one long expectoration. 

 

 

Jared calls the  
number. He has  
no idea what  
he's about  
to say. 

"Uh", brilliant. "A-"  
-eep, beep, beep,  
beep, beep,  
beep.  


 

He  
is ok  
with that. He  
slips into the shower, into a white towel, into his red trainers, into the forest, into the gym, into the park, into the shower again.  
Life is precious.  
He who runs a lot, lives a lot.  
Never let anyone treat you like a yellow starburst, you are a pink starburst. Let your smile change the world, but don't let the world change your, what the actual fuck is he thinking. What _was_ he thinking?

 

He eats breakfast in eerie silence. 

Half an hour in, he remembers something, throws the cereal box out of the window, and arrives to Math class only a hundred minutes late. Without any material.  
At least he isn't naked. There's no need for anyone to discover his, uh. Case of premature hair. 

 

During lunch break, Liane sits down at their table to discuss rehearsals for the play, cutting off Oz' raging speech about, well. Something. Jared is rubbing his face. The everyday noise of a school cafeteria should be easy to get used to. Really, it slows his brain-flow like nothing else.  
The Blackberry blinks.  
You have received two text messages. 

  
[1] _Welcome to Fit 'n Fun. Save time! Get our MINDBODY app, the easiest way to view and manage your schedule: mndbdy.ly_

[2] _hear me here_

  
Jared, on a whim, quits a certain kind of vibe. 

 

 

_'cause it's not my fault that you can't sleep alone_

 

 

He spends 

his whole 

night on 

YouTube. 

 

Do not try this anywhere but home. 

 

 

_honey, do what i don't have to tell you to_

 

 

Another day, another pay? Lay? Slay?  
He doesn't remember. May? Way? Stay? 

Every single thing he needs to remember  
has been run through again and again and again and again and again and he's dead and again. 

Gay? 

Amazingly, it's exactly in the middle of rush hour.  
He's gonna pee all over himself. 

When it's his turn to  
order coffee,  
sheer willpower dodges heaven  
and makes him ask for an,  
uhm, Jensen,  
instead.  


Shit. 

"Hm."  
she raises a  
black eyebrow. "Y'know?" 

He knows. He nods. He wants to begin. 

She disappears  
into the kitchen  
to re-  
appear pulling an  
aproned waist  
to the front. 

Cold, hot. Cold. 

Jared raises a sweaty hand to  
salute to the side.  


Awkward, awkward. He's not so sure anymore, fuck, he's not sure at all. He should turn on his heel -- maybe say goodbye to the coffee first, and Mrs Toyama, but _then_ he should definitely turn on his heel and dig out that grandios Alaska plan again. 

No, no.  
Miracle, i'm doing this.  
Last chance, i'm taking this. 

He points at his own collarbone. 

J - A - carefully keeping eyes off the ground, _off_ the ground, come on, he strokes his lips once with the tip of his index finger. 

 

And wizardry, kids, doesn't exist -- promise. 

 

Yet in a crowded coffee shop with a  
long line of impatient costumers,  
a golden boy  
laughs out _loud_ ,  
stretching his flour-dappled arms across  
the distance to hold 

someone 

close 

. 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please leave a comment/kudo if you enjoyed it :) next verse is already in progress!  
> love you all.
> 
> x thea
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> ###  Tiny Ameslan Dictionary
> 
>  
> 
> [J](https://www.signingsavvy.com/sign/J)
> 
>  
> 
> [A](https://www.signingsavvy.com/sign/A/5820/1)
> 
>  
> 
> [RED](http://www.lifeprint.com/asl101/pages-signs/r/red.htm)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> º .=. º .=. º  
> 
> 
>  
> 
>  


	2. second verse

 

 

 

= 2nd =

 

 

 

 

 

_me and you are acting super america blue_

 

 

There's a fat, pink  
diary sitting on the polished kitchen table,  
and every day it gets more  
used and bruised.  
  
You see, the issue was the purple. It made the thing look elementary school. Mum said it's the only empty notebook in the house, but Jared thinks it was just the ugliest, most kitschy empty notebook in the house. It smells like aunt Stephany, okay. 

Obviously, a reckless change was desperately called for. Acrylic paint was found in an abandoned box from the attic, to be brushed over the purple. It still looks shitty, because the diary's shade of pink is somewhat unreachable. But it's not, like, shitty-shitty. 

Jared always wants the red marker,  
_Cuz i'm Ja-red_ , and  
Jen still calls him a _Stup-red_ for stressing that pun. 

Jen says a lot of things. 

_Yoyoy_ 's and _elele_ 's fill the tinted pages when he's bored, swirling precisely all over Jared's beautiful clean letters until he's boxed in the tummy.  
Time and again, those swirls turn into doodles. Could pass as comics, actually. Sloppy comics of mostly, well, animals behaving like humans, kind of walt disney style, but with more gore. Jen can pull perfect circles with thin granite, his compasses being an elbow perched on the table. 

Right now, he's sketching two tigers standing upright.  
The green eyed one, of course, with veiny monster biceps ripping a shirt that carries the batman symbol -- and the one with the turquoise eyes resembles a stick figure balancing on thin as a rail noodle legs, so long that his frizzle-haired scalp hits the opposite rim of the DIN A5 paper. Which.  
Funny. Very funny.  
Jensen Toyama is a horrible friend. 

_My eyes are not blue._ Punctuation is important here. 

The response is fluent as always.  
_today they were 4 a sec. s2g_

That being said, Jen is also sorta kinda the nicest person Jared's ever met, probably. 

  
He doesn't care to elaborate. 

 

 

_say you won't bite_

 

 

Modern high school. The place where kids socialize, show off their clothes, cry in rancid bathroom stalls, draw hearts on tables, text under tables, smoke weed, smoke cigarettes, and, uh. Learn stuff, every so often. 

Thank god it's Saturday.  
Algebra studies are finished, and breathing is allowed.  
And it's been raining on-and-off, so.  
Staying inside day, it is.  
Since Jared doesn't have torn-clothed artist friends who meet up in basements for vintage movies and joints and sitting on each other's laps, he may as well have verbal conversations with fictional characters when he's home alone.  
Meg caught him once discussing politics with pre-war John Watson, and she had the nerve to call it grotesque. Grotesque!  
Is it _grotesque_ to have Loki casually leaning against the brass fridge in full armor, complaining about his rapunzel of a sibling and planning his next takeover while one makes himself a peanut butter sandwich? 

Yeah. Perhaps. 

He wishes the living room had a real fireplace. Or a small space in the garden, maybe, where they could build one themselves, just like Huck did. Mum would laugh. Mr Smith-Wallis would scream, shout and sue. 

With utter precision, Jen copies a backflipping donald duck from one of those ancient magazines they have laying around the house, except he gives him orange feathers and blonde hair and calls the whole thing _trump-face duckface_.  
Last but not least, an arrow is pulled into a sharp point. 

_goofy & pluto r both dogs, y can only one of em can talk¿?_  


Jared pauses. The seamless pattern of more and more question marks is kind of hypnotizing.  
Finally, choosing the purple fineliner, he nudges the shoulder pressed against his.  


_Pluto woof-woofs!_  


And, careful to maintain his pokerface,  
_woof-woofing is a certified form of communication. how dare you?_ is added. 

Jen grunts and kicks his shin in that wonderful oh-fuck-you-asshat way of his. A hand sets about to draw speech bubbles coming from each snout.  
Rubbing said shin, Jared returns to Huckleberry 'Thinks I'-ing, 'Says I'-ing and exploring the new island with Old Jim, and the hell they care about evenly striped lawns. All they want is food, and sleep, and liberty. 

He contemplates if, hypothetically, he were to ask Jen whether he'd want to leave at midnight, fake their deaths, steal chester's harley and never come back, Jen would let him drive first. 

Probably not in this weather.

There's a bump against his jaw - for whatever reason, he's already been looking - and Jen is yanking a thumb towards the PlayStation, all big eyes. 

Without even meaning to, Jared pouts with him.  
"Mama is home." 

He can't help but wonder  
at the way the  
boy sighs --  
high-to-low,  
fast-to-slow,  
deep from the pharynx.  


 

 

Long story short, they end up stealing the cheesiest-looking novel from her white shelves, to dig out the  
Ughs and Mehs,  
as Jen puts them. 

And every time he finds a particularly big cheesecake, he becomes Julianne Giacomelli and starts air-quoting all over the place.  
In exchange, Jared does whatever he can to twist the best ugly face the universe has ever seen.  
To conclude, this is not boring at all. Indeed, this is somewhat fresh and carefree.

But then they kind of need to know if Marty really leaves Clark, and what's gonna happen to Missie and the baby, blah. Well, so they scan the last ten pages without any shenanigans.  
Shoulders pressing even harder,  
noses so low that Jen must smell  
it too, the fragrance of old pages.

She does.  
But in the end, spoiler alert, Clark goes after her to declare his big, torrid love and bring her back to the farm. Hip hip hooray. 

"yay." 

Tragically, his immense shout of victory will forever be missed by Jen, who's busy stealing the red marker from his lap. 

He writes slowly, brows furrowed. 

_do u believe in god?_

Jared looks down at the words. It's a normal question.  
It's an abnormal question coming from Jen. 

Finally, he gives half a shrug. 

Do you?, he mouths, feeling gawky. 

The almost immediate nod sets the flesh of tight cheeks shaking. Just a little. Marker scraping over paper is a sound you want to keep.

Writing, writing, Jen crosses out more words than he creates. Heaven and hell, purgatory, floating through endless nothings forever, or being born again, here or in another dimension, as cats and stones and humans and aliens.  
That's mystery, Jared thinks. Possibly the one of all. 

In a final move, Jen rips the page out and balls it together, shoulders drawing up. Jared sees distorted feelings, lips pinching each other white. 

A picture to paint over, please. 

Jen doesn't eschew the touch to soft skin behind his ear, pressing down slightly to make his head turn. Just a little. 

And he's butter. 

O - K - O - K, Jared repeats. His hand is innocent, inexperienced, inflexible. O - K. 

It doesn't cast up to a hundred per cent, but. Jen may, might, must be looking a tad less torn apart. 

If they had a real fireplace, they could throw the paper ball. 

 

 

_and i'll file my nails_

 

 

Ameslan,  
American,  
Ameslan. 

Believe it or not, there's facial grammar.  
Adverbs and adjectives can be conveyed with just your muscles. Jen describes tiny things by pursing his lips, blowing out a little air and closing his eyes halfway. If something is very bulky, he puffs out his cheeks. 

_u can say that it's raining hard or that smth is moving fast by shaping ur eyebrows or mouth a kinda way_ , he adds, and taps the paper to catch Jared's eyes.

 _weather. watch._

Scissor hands fall forth and back during slit-eyes, pursed lips, scrunched up nose, frowning, smiling and the o-mouth. WEATHER. Jared can't help but giggle at the comical sight.  
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry", he says, trying, trying not to grin anymore. 

Jen isn't mad.  
He may be bat-shit crazy mad, sure, but not mad _at_.  
Just carries on with his performance. And, well, with exaggeration now clear as day, he may as well get a kick out of the easily humoured audience. He is fantastic. 

Looks can be deceiving. Jared thinks about it when it's time for his own poor attempts. It's harder than it seems, pulling some particular face while concentrating on hand movement simultaneously; not on the shameless whoops and cackles from the carpet.

Tou-freaking-ché.

 

 

 

Chester Abel is still full of shit. 

Which consists of himself, actual shit, too many personal questions, and, oh, those insensitive remarks he spits every five seconds. 

"I'd bang the blond one if he had tits. No homo, J-Pad." 

You see, it is a necessity to mention that if one or two decades into the future, Jared finds himself awarding _this_ guy with the title of the best man on his wedding day, he'll know when it's that time in life when one runs off to Alaska. Forever hereafter. 

"What's his name? What's his name, Gay-Jay?"  


_i don't know._

So naturally, some weird sort of loose companionship has flourished out of exactly nothing. There is no excuse, really. 

"Why not? Hey, hey, Pen-Pen-Penelope, penis-lope. look. what's his name, Penny, is it Ryan? is it Liam?" 

"Leave me alone." 

Drama club has a hard time being taken seriously when there's someone bucking their hips behind Mr Pavetti's back, but Jared gives all he's got. It could be imagined as training, see what it takes to break him out of character. Surprisingly, if he pays attention, it is not even that hard. 

_Dude. Can you not?_

"I can perfectly defend myself, 'lecki", is the sour bite. 

He throws his hands up. Girls. 

But seriously. Painting a story in costume, possessed by fiction itself, is one joyful thing to do. 

 

 

_and wear my jeans tight_

 

 

After having acknowledged, respected and approved of each other's fellow texan sized appetite, they conspire to bug Jen's dad, 'It's Rhodri, son', about his homemade chimichagnas with chile con queso.  
He's a busy, busy business guy, always around the shop or on the way to the garage, waving see-ya with his calculator in hand, never _not_ adorned in gray blazer and blue tie.

Twenty-four dollars, a plethora of groceries with an end note encouraging to _have fun!!!_ , and a dusty kung fu panda sticker is the ultimate feedback. Jen rolls his eyes two times sharply as he stuffs it into his back pocket and nods towards the front door, picking at Jared's shirt as if he hadn't paid attention. 

As _if_ he hadn't paid attention. 

 

 

 

Grocery shopping isn't so bad. 

It's not especially euphoric either.  
Jen pushes the cart through the pre-holiday hustle and bustle aisles at the local walmart, pointing at items and letting Jared chuck cheese and spices and whatever cucumber looks the greenest into it.  
He shakes his head with a smile every time the selected item doesn't seem to fill his designated cuisinier needs, so Jared makes sure to glare a lot. 

Almond butter is $8.97 for 12 ounces. a couple of weeks ago it was $7.98, is what the neighbour informed him about last week, when he was on the porch, back from a crippling P.E. class and fumbling with the key string in his collar. Good times. 

On another note, let's talk about affection. 

Question one, does Jared tend to get upset if he's not the second half of that odd, undeniable tension occuring between the very two most attractive people at a grocery store? 

Usually no, not really. 

Except he lowkey, highkey does. Every single time. 

Today's no exception.  
An insanely tall, insanely pretty lassie has been pretending to look at diverse toothbrushes for the past five minutes, making insanely twinkly brown side-eyes at insanely oblivious Jen.  
So yeah, Jared might be a delusional sci-fi fanatic, but he would like to think that he is not, in fact, a complete and utter patrick star dimwit. Fucking no one but Oz would spend more than five minutes deciding whether _Hard_ or _Medium_ would rather benefit his enamel -- and not even _he_ would just stand there in one place, hip cocked to the side, in wait for hot stranger to round the corner. 

Jen can't be blind, there's no way for Jen to be _that_ blind, though his steps only linger when he's about to squeeze past the now full-on staring girl, a plastic 3-pack forgotten in her hand. 

There's ought to be some kind of intimidation that hot people experience when confronted with the Ones. You know the Ones, _The_ out of this world creatures, _The_ greek royals, _The_ muses, _The_ long limbed pools of gold.  
Later, someone's got to remind Jared about finally getting started on that emo poetry Tumblr blog, maybe devote his username to nth-degree hero worship instead of hinting at the fandoms he's joined so far in his pathetic, unproductive nerdship of a life. 

When the cart brushes the open zipper of her burgundy leather jacket, she softly clears her throat behind teeth, mouth opening and closing. An incredibly awkward thing to go incredibly unnoticed. 

Ten steps further, Jared steals a last glance over his shoulder. It catches her off guard; and she quickly looks at the hand lotions on other side of the aisle, cheeks reddening faintly.  
He sort of wishes her luck. With someone else. 

  
A tug on his sleeve. 

The boy in question is holding up a bright orange hair ribbon, a flick of his gaze alternating between it and said sleeve, eyes bright as if this piece of fabric just made his whole damn day. 

"That what the list says?", Jared croaks. Right. For once he does not regard his embarrassing, puberty given voice mutation, and it becomes a persistent pain in the ass. 

Jen shakes his head, now pointedly looking up at him and starting to make braiding motions next to his ear. 

A snort is Jared's witty answer, very smart, as he hip pushes the idiot aside to take over the cart.  
"Get bent", he says, smoothing a well-chosen finger over Jen's knitted forehead. 

He gets pushed back, thank fuck he does, but the handle stays firmly in his hands. The list is shoved in his face, ink of attained elements smeared over with spit, and they reverse. 

 

After the fulfilled contents of order are locked away to sweat in the trunk, he and him stroll around town for a place to lose the rest of the money.  
_He_ is wearing his third favourite shirt, a gray button-down with a small chest pocket saying _The Current Doctor_ on the rim. The concrete looks warm; there's the suppressed desire to get rid of shoes and socks.  
_Him_ the sun rays love the most. 

It ends up being a small flea market in an alleyway, shadowed by a row of oaks. A few bucks are suddenly worth a fortune, enough to cover the cost of two mason jars of homemade lemonade, five car stickers for Jen's creepy collection, a red marker that the mohawk guy swears has been used only twice, and a copy of _30 Days of Night_ from the same stand, a title which Jen got all excited about when it found him.

Again, they thank the lady who insisted to replace their mason jars with full ones as soon when they were empty. Her comeback is something in Portuguese, making Jen's brows disentangle and rise high.  
Jared clears his throat.  
"Obrigado", he shows off, exempting the only word he knows.  
The woman looks at him funny, so maybe he didn't pronounce it quite correctly. He resists to pull a funny face right back. Everything is lighter, now that there's no clouds. 

They settle down with the comic book on the sidewalk, sipping through red straws, a group of children playing kick the can nearby. 

The comic ain't just any comic. 

If he remembers correctly, there was, in fact, a mention of Templesmith in one of Jen's slightly less confusing 2 AM rants.  
Who would've known that sweet, dramatic, sorrowful Jensen digs vampire horror stories?  
Maybe his friend, if that guy had paid more attention. Let's just say, Jared's glad that this is happening under a long blue sky in the middle of the day. 

A high "hello!" pulls Jared's chin up.  


One little girl is standing a few feet away, tilting her cute little head as she grins. 

He can't help bit grin back.  
He nudges Jen, who's absorbed in the book, amidst a raging, graphic battle featuring satanic distortions. 

"What are you reading?", is asked with purebred innocence, as Jared bumps against him again and Jen, caught, lets the book slide down between his thighs. 

"It's a book for ... students", Jared deadpans, his lazy ass shifting to sit at an approximate 90º angle to Jen. "It's very boring."  
Pause. "Uhm. D'ya like books?" 

Frantic nodding, followed by frantic headshakes. "Yeah, but only with pictures!" 

"That's awesome", Jared says, and Jen next to him turns two thumbs up. Breath against his neck, the smile stays here. 

"My name is Wanda!", she beams. 

"Nice to meetcha, Wanda", it's so easy, talking to children. "I'm Jared. That's Jen. Jensen."  


She eyes the boy curiously, the golden, sunny boy.  
"You look like prince eric!" 

And Jared turns to him fully. No question here.  
'Doesn't he' is almost verbal. 

There's a bitter pill. Jen's biting a twisted lip as he draws a tight circle into the air. 

Prince, Jared mouths, smile never wavering. She called you a prince. 

He's about to draw a crown, but judging the blush on Jen's relaxing cheeks, the message has been decoded. 

When Jared looks back forward, a frown is sitting in her features. 

A demand. "why won't he talk to me?" 

For one moment, Jared is at loss. He looks back at Jen, who's shucking away an invisible spider. "It's -- nothing against you. Uhm. He just. He speaks a different language, you know?" 

A voice calls across the yard. Wanda, come, casserole is ready. Wanda. 

"Ooh." Big eyes, all ire forgotten. "Can you tell him i said goodbye?" 

Jared smiles and nods and thinks. 

She dances away, once turning around to wave.  
He waves back, aching to stroke Jen's slumped shoulders instead. 

They sit like this for another three minutes.  
Okay. He did not say wrong things. Not really. Really?  
But maybe he should've said them more right. 

As they stand, Jen smiles at him. 

Relief hits home.  
He wants to dance like she did, dance away and back and further, further into warm arms. 

"C'mon, prince", he teases instead. 

There's an act of nonplus. He knows plus, because it's red as fire. 

 

 

 

Back home, not home, when they return the three coins of change without the receipt, all they get is an exasperated sigh.  
Unfair enough. 

For the next fifteen minutes, it's chopping veggies and beef, hips moving to _AC/DC_ blasting from two  XL speakers.  
Somewhere on the cover of their second notebook, showing a flamingo sleeping on on one leg, black ink shouts B-A-S-S in the middle of a zig-zag cloud framed with wavelenght symbols. 

Turns out the comic is part of a mini-series, so it kind of ends in a cliffhanger. 

Jared won't sleep tonight. 

 

After having ordered part two and three from the second-hand section on Amazon, Jen writes something. Pauses, and then draws over the words. It's what he does more often these days.  
They're in the kitchen, still. Jared should be working on a school project with Sandro and Assem, but Assem is doing it all on his own anyway. It's easier to call his eager classmate a control freak instead of admitting his own indifference towards russian dictatorships from 1855 to 1992. It's easier. 

Ten minutes of balancing Tolkien over his plate later, Jared gets his first note. 

_do u have an accent?_ , Jen asks, greasy fingers on the pencil and a deep fried piece of burrito sticking out between his teeth. 

Chewing, shifting, keeping his thumb between the pages, Jared thinks. A fairly difficult task when your mouth is full of melted cheese.  
_Dunno. Not in an obvious way, I guess.  
What's the sign for accent?_

Jen, God bless him, drops his food once again. He forms his hand into an index finger handshape and brings it to his throat, leaving behind a tiny piece of dillweed. 

So when Jared tries to indicate that hey, uhm, dude, there's something on your throat,  
Jen only gives a reassuring thumbs up. 

A choke.  
wild head shakes, frowns,  
more motions, more signs,  
another choke on sprite, trying again. 

By the time he's gotten his point across, Jared's barked up enough laughter to be in stitches for the next six months or so, if his aching jaw and stomach stand for anything at all. Jen is pink down to his chest, eyes glittering with tears, and when his dad demands to know in two languages what the actual _heck_ is happening, the impossible becomes a fact.  
It's guffaws and aboveboard shrieks all over again. 

Ouch, ow. 

 

 

_someday i'll call you back_

 

 

Albert Einstein's eyes are locked in a safe deposit box somewhere in new york city. True story, says the red comic sans on a badly structured internet page.

Mum says yes.  
Jared says no.  
Mum asks why.  
Jared says because.  
Mum says darling, remember when i had to carry you around for thirty-five and a half weeks and press you out of my uterus and through my bleeding vagi-  
Fine, Jared says, and slams the door like the reckless, restless, ruthless rebel he is. 

That's it. that is the wicked story of one beautiful, abominable Saturday morning. See, he was so happy, had set up the perfect plan of rewatching random _Skam_ episodes while picking up where he left off in that slow build 125 K fic. Though there's no lack of broad imagination, thank you very much, he likes to have faces in front of him and voices in his ear. It's _stressful_ , concentrating on plot and a wide open scenery. His mind tends to shrink itself into a tiny room without detail, and detail is fucking important, okay. Good lawyers know the laws. Good cowboys know the land. Stephen frea- King put the universe in a nutshell.  
Anyway. This has to be God himself _Not today, Satan_ -ing. Thanks, God.

"Don't you slam the door, young man!" 

Jared really hates his mum. 

 

 

 

Jared especially hates his mum at three in the afternoon, when he could be in his room, doing nothing.

"Can we go home yet, there's this project thing on Monday." 

Absolutely _nothing._

  
Here's the summary. It's blazing hot, yay. This place is packed with body heat, yay. Seriously, how is this liberty? Maybe the statue is a satire. Nobody is free. Everyone is money's bitch and social media's slave. Or maybe, maybe, life itself is a giant fucking joke. 

"Hon, i told you, we're so not leaving without a new autumn jacket."  
This woman will be the near death of his.  
In gucci he'll drown, with her still smiling through the bundled force of a billion nerves of steel. It was bound to happen. 

Somehow, how, _how_ , she manages to frown with the laughing crinkles around her eyes. "Oh, i can't even look at you. The sleeves barely reach your wrist! My baby boy, you're sprouting like a flower." 

Coming back here with his college mates after the finals in ten years or so, _that_ will be liberating. If he doesn't fuck up, future self's gonna be the shit. Hot, smart, hot, funny, hot and social, and hot, so that everyone will wanna hang out with him. Not because he'll be wearing McQueen, and he is _not_ a flower, dammit. 

Yeah, possible hormone overload.  
possible. Jared, you emo. 

Only the imaginary of himself in alternate universes gets him into, but also out of situations like this. 'S how he copes, rolls. A rolling rollercoaster. 

He cracks his knuckles.  
Crick, crack.  
Crock. 

"Jared Tristan Volta-Padalecki!" 

Cruck.  
His code name is agent 009.  
009 must prevent a group of terrorists from bombing this whole giant shopping center. His assigned partner on this special project, agent 014, will concentrate on maintaining their cover -- while he, the unmistakable mastermind on this mission, calculating the whole security system behind his all-observing, incredibly watchful e-  
"Jay." 

He blinks.  
Not 014. 

A man.  
A very, very tall man, with a thick, sharp beard. Might as well be an agent, after all. Or a genius supervillain. Seriously, he's so tall. It usually takes a stairway or a ladder for someone to smile down at Jared. He doesn't know if he likes it. He doesn't know if he should.

"Hey, kid." 

  
But he knows that voice. 

 

 

_'cause i want you more than i want the things you lack_

 

 

Compared to English's grammar police, sign language is pretty chill. When dealing with simple sentences, it doesn’t really matter which word comes first.  
Jen is happy to give examples. 

_she drives the car_  
_→ SHE - DRIVES - CAR / CAR - SHE - DRIVES_  


Still, minding a certain order could prevent misunderstandings. 

_i give you a kiss_  
_→ ME YOU -- KISS GIVE. see?_

With an inner cheek bite, Jen slides the journal across the narrow table, pointing at each all-caps word to demonstrate its sign. 

A-once, a-twice, a couple more times if necessary. 

Jared happily copies each movement, nods when he thinks he's got it - and well, when Jen doesn't think he's got it, he watches it more closely. Whatever.  
His pride suffers, but sometimes pride's just gotta suffer, alright.  
Fuck pride. This is is fun. 

Until it is not. 

Until it is not anymore. 

Releasing a soft breath, Jensen extends his fingers and holds them together to touch his mouth, followed by his cheekbone. 

Before he moves on to the last word, he breaks eye contact for what feels like the first time. 

The air feels full and flaky. 

Nonetheless, Jared copies again, taking all effort to ignore the light-headed flotage swirring in his brain, a stumbling query. 

 

 

_honey, do what i don't have to tell you to_

 

 

America has no official national language.  
Spoken are Spanish, English, Hawaiian, French, Chinese, Tagalog, Vietnamese, Korean, German, and so forth.  
Unspoken, well. 

_What did i just say??? ??_

Jen's still giggling his stupid balls off.  
Giggling, yes. These are certified giggles. To be perfectly candid, there can't be any synonym for this noise. Sniggering would be the alternative, but sniggering reminds Jared of disrespect. On the other hand, giggling is alarmingly disrespectful in its own unapologetic and adorable sorta way. 

Jen leans forward. His vibrating hand makes his blotchy font look even more slapdash. 

_smth like 'wake up, milk is my enemy'_

Jared grunts. Certainly not.  
"You're a milk", he mumbles. 

Still grinning, Jen moves an outstretched hand in a half-circle towards his horizontal palm. Ugh. 

"You're a -", hold on. 

YOU - MILK, Jared signs abruptly, in hopes of being free of error. 

Jen splutters.  
He doesn't re-correct him, though. Good. His left hand is just resting on the couch near Jared's tigh, and it's kind of most definitely driving him fucking nuts. 

The bet of who wouldn't flinch during a muted horror movie marathon has been put on a test since Jen's dad - 'Boy, just Rhodri' - left the house to buy beehives uptown.  
Because that's what dads do nowadays. 

So far, they're both winning. The subtitles may play a part in that, but holy crap, for how much longer is Jen going to keep his hand on that same spot.  
This is a new book screaming to be read. This is warm bread begging to be stuffed in bellies. This is the smell of his damn mocha latte.  
Neither movement nor coherent thought will be carried to completion for the next half an hour, he's sure of it. 

The clown turns his bloody head in a full circle. 

At least Jared can squawk as loud as he wants. 

 

 

 

Two  
hours later, Jen wiggles his wallet  
towards a tiny  
building across the street - a comic shop.  
Of course. Like a sponge he'd soaked up the graphic deaths of innocents, even declared himself an addict yesterday.  
Jared shrugs, nods, and tags along for the fun. 

One  
second later,  
he's yanking Jen backwards by the hem of his shirt as a car dashes by at breakneck speed, gone after a beat, fuck.  
"Fuck!", he says -- oh, someone's breathing hard. "You idiot!"  
Arms draw him in. "You fucking idiot!" 

His nose is buried in cotton, a sloppy hand comes to grip the back of his neck. Doesn't know who he's cursing bloody demons up for, he can't care, fists waiting, heart jumping in his mouth. 

The body against him, the world, it's all doddering. The world!  
Frantic, fighting, Jared leans back, a face twitch harsher. 

Golden boy's skin has turned silver,  
a picture of razor sharp angst. 

There's still talking, Jared thinks he's still talking, but those eyes don't fall to read.  
Skin slides from his neck, down to that chest in front of his, A-hand rotating against the fabric, round and around, trembling. 

He lets his eyes close for five seconds. 

Feels his heartbeat hit the brakes. 

It's calm, the world doesn't shake, no ambulance sirens wail from afar. 

  
And reopen. 

Jen looks like he's on the brink. 

It's, Jared thinks, doesn't think as he lowers his lips against the light hairline, okay.  
Okay, okay. 

  
I was there. 

 

 

 

 

 

[The journal stays with Jared tonight. After his teeth have been brushed, he finds scrawls in the inner fold of the last page. 

_gal at the store was tots checking u out_

and 

_they were green tday_. 

 

Jared throws something.] 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please leave a comment/kudo if you liked it :)  
> next chapter is in progress. the pining season has officially begun!  
> stay awesome, peeps.
> 
> x thea
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> ###  Tiny Ameslan Dictionary
> 
>  
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> [AGAIN](https://www.handspeak.com/word/most-used/index.php?id=51)  
> unsurprisingly, the most commonly used sign.
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> 
> [KISS](https://www.signingsavvy.com/sign/KISS/1646/2)  
> some words, like 'kiss', have two or more different signs to it. i linked you to the one i personally preferred.
> 
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> 
> [NO](https://www.handspeak.com/word/most-used/index.php?id=1496), [YES](https://www.handspeak.com/word/most-used/index.php?id=2443)  
> scrolling down on each page, you'll find completely different signs for _emphatic_ 'no' and _enthusiastic_ 'yes'. don't forget 'yeah' and 'uh-huh'.
> 
>  
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> [(I'M) SORRY](http://www.lifeprint.com/asl101/pages-signs/s/sorry.htm)  
> also used for 'apologize' or 'regret'.
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> º .=. º .=. º  
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End file.
